Clarity
by Gaosheng
Summary: Two years after Serena and Darien have broken up, they find themselves thrown together again as they embark on individual journeys to move on, let go, grow up, and find new love as adults in the real world. Will they find their way back together? Or does fate have other plans for them?
1. Chapter 1

Synopsis: This story is an AU based in the USA. It starts 2 years after Serena and Darien have broken up and follows them on their journey to move on, let go, grow up and find new love as adults in the real world. Will our two favorite protagonist find their way back together? Keep reading and find out ;)

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><p>"Hey," he says, and before I know it, he is already kissing me, his hands pulling my waist towards him, and I forget we are still standing in front of his house. In one sweeping motion he picks me up and like a reflex I wrap my legs around his waist. When he finally breaks the kiss, he whispers into my ear, "I've missed you."<p>

And I think to myself, I can't remember how it feels like to be missed by someone. Someone not my mom or dad or sister or brother. But someone who doesn't have to miss me at all.

Under the street lamp, everything is golden. Even the black concrete of the road is glistening; wet from the afternoon rain. But I am no longer 16. I don't romanticize how it feels to have a man's strong arm wrapped around me. I don't pretend that his words mean anything more than this. His lips on mine. The promise of bare skin on bare skin.

Because even under the light, the sky is black, and not he nor I could tell you if there was even one star to be seen.

In his bedroom he keeps a bulletin board of miscellaneous mementos. A pencil drawing of a beloved Pokémon character. A photo of his high school varsity tennis team. A birthday card signed in barely legible scrawl "Little Bro". And more recently, a friend's engagement announcement. It was pinned on top of the rest—but still several months old according to the date.

I wondered about the smiling couple. How they met and how long they were together. They had the look of high school sweethearts; the kind of look that said, "We've only known one love." Their smile gave it away; too bright to know the dimmer of unfulfilled teenage expectations. I couldn't stand their confidence.

It's that strange time in my mid-twenties when marriage seems like the perfect linear step to take for everyone else but me. While all my friends are going to go on 5 year anniversary dinners with their boyfriends, I am in the bedroom of a man I hardly know at 2 in the morning; trying to decide if I can put the puzzle pieces of his life together in time before I cross that ultimate threshold; where the only personal history people care about is the kind that can be guarded by a latex shield.

He asks me what I am thinking about, but when I turn around, I am met by the mountain of his back —not a winsome smile or a watchful gaze—but a solid impenetrable wall that I've never climbed before. And I don't know how to answer him. I don't know where to start. I want to ask if he believes that first loves can be last loves but—what do walls know about love?

"I want to know about you," I admitted; watching as he clicked away at his desktop computer.

He groaned. "That's a dangerous topic."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to fall in love with me," he laid that line like a Nicholas Sparks novel.

I rolled my eyes. Too old and too jaded to be reeled in by that reverse psychology mumbo jumbo. "Are you kidding me?" I quipped; glaring into the back of his head.

"Absolutely not. Do not mistake my intentions. I think you're sexy and I want to sleep with you, but I'm not looking for love."

"I'm not either."

"Good." He is looking at me now. A slow smile drew across his face and I tell my excited heart to relax because, I'm not supposed to feel anything for this guy, but it has a mind of its own so, it thuds fast and hard.

"You said you missed me," I try to say as evenly as I can to match his nonchalant attitude.

"Well it's been a month, hasn't it? From the night I took you to the bar?"

I nod.

"I can miss you, can't I? We had a lot of fun that night."

I am blushing at the memory. Hip to hip. Grinding in perfect unison. I NEVER danced like that. Ever.

At the time, I thought he could've been someone special. I liked the way he was a fountain of facts. He said he retained information really well from watching 60 Minutes TV programs with his mom. That got me. He was the kind of guy who spent time with his mom.

But now as music comes on I realize I am in for more than I bargained for.

"Sorry, I had to compile a playlist," he apologizes. He turns off his desk light, and in the darkness I don't see a single gleam in his eyes as he turns to look at me.

"Lay down," he softly coos, gently patting his unmade bed.

And now, for the first time since I got there, I am beginning to worry. Something about the shadowy outline of his blankets in disarray didn't sit well on my conscience. In the time it took me to drive to his house, he hadn't bothered to smooth them out—not even for me. As I lean into the mattress I feel the wrinkle of every girl before me.

He kneels onto the bed and takes off his shirt. When his lips touch mine, I don't feel his commitment in the kiss. Instead, his hands are pawing at my breasts and before I can protest, he is taking off my shirt, he is taking off my pants, he is putting on a condom—"Just in case," he says. And I think I hear myself say, No, but he replies that the tip is already in and so I let him fuck me.

I tell myself its okay. I tell myself I knew this was going to happen. I HAD to know that it was going to happen—going over to a guy's house at 2 in the morning? It was _asking for it. _It's just sex, I chanted. It doesn't have to mean anything. It doesn't mean anything at all.

When it is over, he tucks my head under his chin and holds me against his side. "How was it?" He asks.

And I wonder if it matters whether or not I tell the truth or lie because all I can think about is that I don't even know his last name—and it didn't bother me. Not one bit.

Before I leave, the smiling engagement photo taunts me on my way out. Outside, the sky is blacker than before and not even the golden glow of the streetlamp can disguise the feeling of emptiness all around. As I get into my car I dig into my coat pocket for my cellphone and look for "Do Not Call" in the address book and press the dial button.

The line begins to ring on the other end. I seatbelt and start the car. It has been almost a year and a half. It rings again. I exhale slowly and pull the car away from the curb. We were once the smiling faces of high school sweethearts. I recall the break up as vividly as if it happened yesterday. It rings for the third and final time. I am turning onto the main road. Realization is now dawning on me that I have finally slept with someone else than Darien and I don't know if I should weep or celebrate—because this is what grown women do when they get over a man, right?

Just as I was about to end the call, a voice sprang clearly from the speaker, "Serena? It's late—" I hear him groan as he checks the time. "What's up?"

"Hey…." I said, appreciating the way Darien's voice shined clearly even through the darkness. "I've missed you."

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><p>Final Notes: Please review and let me know what you think about the story. Your input will help me greatly in further writing and expanding the story. Much love from me to you all :D Review, review, review!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Hi everyone! Happy New Years! Please read and let me know what you think.

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><p>"What are you doing calling me right now?" He asks; a hint of annoyance in his voice. I haven't spoken to him in over a year and he still couldn't contain his hostility towards me. Granted, it was 3 in the morning but, I could've had an emergency. I could've been in serious danger. I could've needed him.<p>

"I…" How does one tell their ex-boyfriend they just had sex with someone else? It took me 2 years but, I did it. I actually allowed myself to be attracted to another man. But there is a terrible realization I have made, and it's that not all sex is equal. And it sounds stupid for me to have just realized that because, of course, each person brings a different level of experience and talent to the table—but I didn't expect it would be that bad. "…just wanted to see if you were up."

It wasn't that I wanted to rub it in his face. It's just that he was my best friend. And after something like this, you want to tell your best friend. Over a year and a half of silence and I just want to talk to my best friend.

"I was sleeping." And as he says this I can imagine the muscle in his hard jaw tick; giving away his calm cover.

I immediately start to feel stupid. I berate myself for calling him. The last time I talked to him he told me he was through with me; he made it very clear he didn't want to hear from me ever again. The heaviness of his words settles in my chest; smothering the small hope I carried there.

"Sorry," I say, and I don't know if I'm apologizing to him or to myself because I couldn't hide the disappointment in that one word. This night was not a good night.

"Is that it?" He demands gruffly; still half asleep. I wonder if he'll remember this in the morning. I hope he does. I hope he thinks of me.

"Yeah…" I breathed heavily into the phone; thinking maybe I could touch him that way. That somehow phones could carry the air we breathe and deposit them on the other side the way it does with our voices. If that's the only way I can touch him now, I hope he feels all the words I want to say in that one breath. "Goodnight."

"Night," he returns, and then the line goes silent and he is gone.

I want to cry. And I do. I don't fight it when it starts, and it comes readily. My chest shakes. I start to remember how hard it is to breathe without him, how it hurts to inhale because my lungs are too tired from breathing life into moments already dead. And I know these salty lips are no longer the ones he kissed. Dry skin peels away and new layers form. But I pretend—oh how I pretend—that it's been one year and seven months since he last kissed me. The truth is, these lips have never touched his, and I am realizing that that's all we are now. Dead skin on trial.

I swipe away my tears as I hit the freeway. The traffic is light at 4 AM but it is still dark. It is still night. And I am still missing him.

"Serena, darling, did you just get home?" My mother asked from on top the staircase. She was dressed in a bathrobe. Rubbing her eyes as if to clear what she thought was a hallucination of her daughter standing in the dark.

"Um, no, Mom, I just had to run back out to my car to get my phone charger. I got home three hours ago." I was lying of course, but I prayed she'd be too tired to question me.

"Oh, Dear couldn't you wait until the morning to get it? It's so early. Go back to bed, Sweetheart."

I watched my mom's retreating back until it disappeared from sight from the bottom of the staircase. Still, I didn't move until I heard her bedroom door close. I didn't want her to see that I was still in my street clothes. If she saw me, she'd know I was lying.

My parents have been more lenient on me ever since the breakup. No more curfews. No more chores. No more nagging—about my grades, about the state of my bedroom, about getting a job. I attribute this to the fact that my mom found me crying in my room one day. It was spring break and early in the morning. I never woke up early, but after the breakup it seemed I couldn't fall asleep and I couldn't stay asleep. I'd watch Netflix until 3 AM and then somehow couldn't sleep through the sound of someone using the bathroom shower at 7 AM.

"Serena, are you awake?" I remember her voice. Tentative. Almost scared.

"What, Mom?" I asked, not looking up from the pillow I had my face burrowed deep into as I sobbed.

"Are you okay, Sweetheart?"

"I'm fine, Mom." I answered this way every time someone asked me how I was feeling. And it was always enough. Even if nobody believed it. They wanted it to be true.

"Why are you crying?" I could hear the uncertainty in her voice; she didn't know if her responsibility was to stay or leave.

"Go away, please. I'm fine."

"But—"

"Go away!"

After that, _everyone_ was asking if I was okay. My mom told my grandma, my aunt, my uncle, and my friends to watch out for me. She told them I was _depressed._

The D word. She might as well tag me with a sign that said "CRAZY" on it because everyone was giving me that look with the sad eyes and patient smile. _How are you feeling today?_ They asked. _Do you want to talk about it?_ Everyone was so attentive and _nice_. And it's never good when people are nice. Because nice is hardly genuine.

I turn on my bedroom light and start stripping out of my clothes. I wanted to feel dirty, to feel contaminated, to feel like I did something wrong—but I felt nothing. And I was sure he wouldn't call me again. He "hit it and quit it" and the scariest thing was that I didn't care. How could I? I hardly knew him.

We met about a month ago in the town square arcade. He challenged me to a game—and although I was hesitant at first, I accepted. I figured there was no harm in playing a game with the guy. But then he started flirting with me—and I noticed him, I mean _really noticed_ him, halfway through our third game. He was a good looking guy. And I haven't found other men attractive since Darien.

When he asked for my number, I gave it to him. It's been almost two years, I told myself.

I didn't know that after one date and several phone calls, I'd drive to his house tonight. I didn't intend to sleep with him. I just wanted to talk. I told him "no" but he kept insisting. He took off my shirt. And then he took off my pants and…I had driven to a man's home in the middle of the night—and rape is the last thing I can call it, right? Even if I didn't want to. Even if I told him "no". I didn't fight him. Was that rape?

I couldn't shake the thought.

I picked up my dirty clothes off the floor and walked into my closet to deposit them in the laundry basket. I knew I wasn't going to sleep so I decided I'd clean. Taking out the drawer in my nightstand, I dump the contents to the floor and decide to weed through the items I had been hoarding. A box of tea I never drank. Old phone chargers. Several books. A protractor. Yu-gi-oh cards. Jewelry. Color pencils. Sun glasses. And paper. Lots and lots of loose paper.

As I gathered the paper into the trash, a crisply folded lined paper fell to the floor. I go back for the piece of paper and automatically register the handwriting of a 17 year old boy.

The letter read:

_Dear Sweetie,_

_I don't really know what to write for this but I'm going to dive right in and say what's on my mind. Which is, according to you, a "stream of consciousness." Okay. So here is my best shot. Hope you like._

_I first met you around seven to eight months ago. You were still "Pegasus" to me back then. At that time I didn't really know what to think of you. You were after all, John's "prospect." Because of this, you were nothing to me. You were just another girl that one of my friends liked. As time went by and I got to know you better, I constantly had to remind myself of this. You were off limits. But looking back now, I'm glad I made the decision I made. Everything worked out perfectly, well not really, but its close enough. John and I are still friends. Don't really hang out that much anymore, but the love is still there. LOL. And you, YOU are a gift from God. You have stood by me for the past six months. You have stood by me through everything. From my friends becoming pet peeves to my getting my application to Cal Poly Pamona withdrawn. And for that I thank you. And if you ever need someone to talk to or a shoulder to lean on, you can count on that someone being me. Well that is if you want me to be. So yes, in retrospect I made the right decision. You have become more than just a girlfriend to me. You are my life now. You are my everything._

_I hope you liked that last paragraph. Not just the meaning but, also how I structured the sentences and paragraph. I especially like how the paragraph started off by mentioning that you meant nothing to me and never will but, by the end of the paragraph you mean everything to me. But yeah just thought it was cool. Thought I'd mention it. Oh and any criticism/editing would be greatly appreciated I wanted to continue improving y writing since I'll be going to college soon. I know my writing now will not cut it with professors, so if you're willing to teach. I'm willing to learn._

_Love,_

_Darien_

My hands shook as I folded the letter back up and tossed it onto my bed. After I put the drawer back into my nightstand, I walked to the closet, grabbed a weathered men's T-shirt from a hanger and slipped it on. When I finally get into bed and turn off the lights, I put the letter under my pillow and hope for dreams where seventeen year old boys keep promises they make to sixteen year old girls.

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><p>End Note: Please leave a review. All feedback is greatly appreciated and will be put towards improving the next chapter.<p> 


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